Accident and Elementary
by Robot Hart
Summary: When John walked into the morgue in St. Barts, he was sure he'd seen that face before ... The story of when Sherlock and John first met as teenagers. This is my first story, so I'd really appreciate some feedback. Enjoy !
1. John's Accident

Bang. Bang. The Volleyballs ricocheted off the brick walls in quick sucession. The two groups of boys were huddled at opposite ends of the room. They were dressed in matching polo shirts and gym shorts, in a wild mismatch of sizes. Thud. One of the balls hit the smallest boy in the chin. A whistle was blown. "Watson, you're benched." yelled the teacher, an ageing man with a very red face. The boy who was called took his place next to a gangly indian with glasses, and a large boy - known as Stamford. Bang. Crash. Thud. The balls echoed like gunshots, and more and more boys sat on the bench. A couple of boys were sat on the opposing bench, but it was clear that they had a far stronger team. At one point, Stamford was called back into play and sent of before he even reached the centre of the gymnasium. The other team laughed. The first of many balls came careering towards the bench, and even John had to duck to avoid getting hit. With five players left, the indian was called back on, but was also sent off instantaneously. John could feel the inside of his cheek beginning to bleed ,where his jaw had caught it when he was hit. Now only two people were left playing on his team, and ten of the biggest boys where left on the other one. Dave - the school bully- who was as broad as he was tall, laughed as another boy slunk over to the bench. One left. They would lose, as always happened, and John would only have 20 minutes left until he was free to go to his next lesson. His mind began to wonder about the essay that was due, and if the three sides he had written would be enough to get him an A, when the whistle blew.

"Watson, you're on" yelled the teacher. He sat dead still and pretented not to hear him. Eleven (the other team had gained a play while he'd been daydreaming) verses Two. This would be a slaughter, and he didn't want to be part of it. The teacher yelled again, and John realized he would have no excuse for not having heard him a second time. He slowly made his way towards the centre of the gym, and prayed. One ball flew at him instantly. He ducked, but it got the other boy in the stomach. One against eleven. (Or as they used to tease, half againest eleven - John had constantly been told as a child that he was too short to be a whole person). The whistle blew and John ducked, missing the three oncoming missiles, but smashing his knee into the wooden floor. He winced, and gathered himself back up again, collecting two of the projectiles, and aiming to throw as the third hit him square in the back of the head.

There were two of his head. Two of each of the vastly outnumbering players on the other team. John hoped this was the end of the game , but as no whitsle was blown he'd have to carry on. They chanted his name, all the rejects and loners and everyone sat on both of those benches. He lifted his hand higher towards his face. He dragged the ball back and began to aim. 22 targets to choose from, and all of them were rather blurry around the edges. John brought his hand forward to find that there were two of them, and two of the ball. His wrist flexed, dropping the ball at his feet. All four of them. There was a loud thud as it bounced away.

John doubled over, and vomited.


	2. Sherlock's Accident

Dr. Stevens was sure he could smell something unusual coming from his lab at the end of the corridor. As a chemistry teacher in the area's leading grammer school, a scent he didn't recognise was not something he had expected to come across whilst on lunchtime duties. It would be fine, he told himself, taking another bite of his homemade cheese and pickle sandwich. Sherlock Holmes was in there. His own prodigy, who at 15 was already well beyond the sixth form syllabus. The teacher wondered sometimes about whether he would get any credit if the boy discovered the cure for cancer, or why the atom is arranged in it's rather bizarre but well accepted format, or anything else that was worthy of a nobel prize. That would be a nice headline, and a good story to tell his grandchildren."You know Sherlock Holmes, the man in all your textbooks, Well I was his chemistry teacher". For a while, the doctorate allowed himself to get lost in this fantasy - how there would be an acceptance speech to praise him, and all the people who would be so very pleased with him, for showing that sometimes teaching really did bring great results.

However, the stench soon became unbearable, and so the man got up and walked quickly along the coridoor. He was holding his hand over his noise when he opened the door. His progidy was slumped over the desk, pen dropped on the floor. The boy was whiter than a sheet and appeared to have blood dripping out of his nostrils. The doctor sighed, the boy appeared to have accidentally poisoined himself.  
The head would be fuming, for allowing this gross breech of staff conduct to have occured. Still, the boy had been experimenting in the lab since his second year and nothing had gone wrong before. The teacher put some of the more dangerous chemicals out of site, before making sure the child was still breathing and calling for the nurse.


	3. The Ambulance

The paramedics came rather quickly. Before he had realized what was going on, John was sat it the back of an amublance with his head between his knees. Everything was spinning. Round and round. It made him feel dizzy just to keep his eyes open, but the darkness was even more disoreinating. His mouth tasted of blood. "This has to be the worst P.E lesson ever" he thought to himself. The sound of ths sirens blazed in his eardrums, and John instictivly wanted to put his hands over his ears.

The younger looking of the two medical staff placed a blanket round his shoulders as they drove faster though the city centre traffic. John could feel something welling up in the back of his throut. His hands gripped onto the cardboard sick bowl so much that his knucles went white. It was so stuffy in there, or at least it felt it to him. Someone slammed on the breaks, and John lurched forwards, along with the contents of his stomach. He tried sheepishly to apologize to the young paramedic who had accidentally been splattered, as John was far too dizzy to aim for the sick bowl. The medical staff talked amoungest themselves, mostley about stuff John didn't understand. They said this was one of the worst cases of concussion they'd seen for a while.

How would John explain this to Harry, who was in the middle of sitting some very important college acceptance exams. Trying to tell his mother didn't even bear thinking about. She'd always had a weak spot for whiskey, and ever since his Dad failed to return from Kuwait two years ago she'd hit the bottle with even more of vengeance. It wasn't like she'd really care. She didn't care anymore, about anything. It was just great. Here he was, feeling like hell and busy worrying about how he'd explain it all away. Why should he? The brakes screeched yet again, and John could tell they'd arrived. He allowed himself to lifted into a wheelchair, and pushed though the main doors of A and E.


	4. The Emergency Room

Sherlock lifted back his eyelids after what felt like an eternity. The light was bright. So very bright. Slowly he lifted his hand to face, and felt the blood pouring from his nostrils. He was lying down, with a woolen hospital blanket pulled up to his armpits. This definitely wasn't Lab 4b, where he'd been only moments before. There was a very strong smell of disinfectant. "Of course" he muttered to himself, entirely unaware of the other person in the room. He dashed around his mind palace, trying to work out what had happened to cause him to faint. Sodium Hydroxide, Ammonia, Magnesium Chloride. Chemicals whipped though his brain, and he dissmissed each one of them as the cause of this incident.

"Mind telling us what happened young man" a deep voice, with a thick scottish accent said. The soucre of the voice, a doctor in his mid-fiftes, moved closer to the bedside. "You could have gotten yourself killed, lad". Sherlock had no idea how to react, so he lay there motionless, hoping this could all just go away. There'd be no more creepy doctors, no more torment from the other senior 4 boys, nor more lectures from his mother about how he much try harder with people. He could tell from the knot in somebodies tie what time they'd got up that morning, and why people bullied him from their haircut, or the look in their eyes. Wasn't that enough of people to understand ? The fake concern washing the doctors face made it clear that an answer was nessacery. Taking his time, Sherlock propped himself up in bed, noticing as he did so that no-one had bothered to romove his school uniform.

"You're not really bothered with me, so why should I bother with you? You're far more concerned with your impending divorce, and your mother' recent weight gain to care about any of your patients, so why should I help you. It's been nice meeting you, well not really. Goodbye." With that, the teenager leaped out of bed and out of the door. He was no more than 10 foot out of room when he began to feel ridcouly light-headed. The doctor, after overcoming the shock of what the boy had told him and how accurately he'd delved into the depths of his brain, left the room and led Sherlock back to bed. But not before a paramedic entered his room with a wheelchair huddled with the figure of a small vomiting boy.


	5. Why Doctors are Imbeciles

Sherlock sighed. First this, and now company. He never cared much for company. The idea behind putting him with someone his own age was probably to get him to talk, and confess to whatever drugs they thought he'd been taking. At least it were only an art lesson he was missing. He wasn't a fan of art. His teacher would be banging on about the importance of self-expression, and moan whenever he tried to tell her that the painting they were studying was a fake. She'd been so irritated when sherlock revealed that van gough never painted the sunflowers he'd been put in detention for "impertinence". Well, it could be worse.

"Um ... er ... Hi?" said the other boy. He appeared to have stopped vomiting now, at least for the time was still some drooling down his chin. Even though Sherlock was immune to any feelings of that nature, he still thought it was rather disguting. Sherlock took a quick glance. 16 years old. 5th year. Stressed. Military family, his posture made that obvious. Hungry, that was usaully the case when everything one'd eaten over the last day or so was on the floor of a gymnasium somewhere. Disparaging about his lack of height. And, quite like sherlock himself, bored. "I play the violin, would that annoy you?" sherlock replied, and without waiting for an anwsear, took his instrument out of it's pristine case and began to play.  
The doctor walking past did a double take. Perhaps his plan wouldn't work so well after all.


End file.
